The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (35 page)

“I am of the I–A,” said Orne. “Where've you hidden the
Delphinus
?”

“In the place that suits us best,” said Tanub. “In all our history there has never been a better place.”

“What do you plan to do with it?” asked Orne.

“Within a year we will have a copy with our own improvements. After that—”

“You intend to start a war?” asked Orne.

“In the jungle the strong slay the weak until only the strong remain,” said Tanub.

“And then the strong prey upon each other?” asked Orne.

“That is a quibble for women,” said Tanub.

“It's too bad you feel that way,” said Orne. “When two cultures meet like this they tend to help each other. What have you done with the crew of the
Delphinus
?”

“They are slaves,” said Tanub. “Those who still live. Some resisted. Others objected to teaching us what we want to know.” He waved the gun muzzle. “You will not be that foolish, will you, Orne?”

“No need to be,” said Orne. “I've another little lesson to teach you: I already know where you've hidden the
Delphinus.
”

“Go, boy!”
hissed Stetson.
“Where is it?”

“Impossible!” barked Tanub.

“It's on your moon,” said Orne. “Darkside. It's on a mountain on the darkside of your moon.”

Tanub's eyes dilated, contracted. “You read minds?”

“The I–A has no need to read minds,” said Orne. “We rely on superior mental prowess.”

“The marines are on their way,”
hissed Stetson.
“We're coming in to get you. I'm going to want to know how you guessed that one.”

“You are a weak fool like the others,” gritted Tanub.

“It's too bad you formed your opinion of us by observing only the low grades of the R&R,” said Orne.

“Easy, boy,”
hissed Stetson.
“Don't pick a fight with him now. Remember, his race is arboreal. He's probably as strong as an ape.”

“I could kill you where you sit!” grated Tanub.

“You write finish for your entire planet if you do,” said Orne. “I'm not alone. There are others listening to every word we say. There's a ship overhead that could split open your planet with one bomb—wash it with molten rock. It'd run like the glass you use for your buildings.”

“You are lying!”

“We'll make you an offer,” said Orne. “We don't really want to exterminate you. We'll give you limited membership in the Galactic Federation until you prove you're no menace to us.”

“Keep talking,”
hissed Stetson.
“Keep him interested.”

“You dare insult me!” growled Tanub.

“You had better believe me,” said Orne. “We—”

Stetson's voice interrupted him:
“Got it, Orne! They caught the
Delphinus
on the ground right where you said it'd be! Blew the tubes off it. Marines now mopping up.”

“It's like this,” said Orne. “We already have recaptured the
Delphinus.
” Tanub's eyes went instinctively skyward. “Except for the captured armament you still hold, you obviously don't have the weapons to meet us,” continued Orne. “Otherwise, you wouldn't be carrying that rifle off the
Delphinus.
”

“If you speak the truth, then we shall die bravely,” said Tanub.

“No need for you to die,” said Orne.

“Better to die than be slaves,” said Tanub.

“We don't need slaves,” said Orne. “We—”

“I cannot take the chance that you are lying,” said Tanub. “I must kill you now.”

*   *   *

Orne's foot rested on the air sled control pedal. He depressed it. Instantly, the sled shot skyward, heavy G's pressing them down into the seats. The gun in Tanub's hands was slammed into his lap. He struggled to raise it. To Orne, the weight was still only about twice that of his home planet of Chargon. He reached over, took the rifle, found safety belts, bound Tanub with them. Then he eased off the acceleration.

“We don't need slaves,” said Orne. “We have machines to do our work. We'll send experts in here, teach you people how to exploit your planet, how to build good transportation facilities, show you how to mine your minerals, how to—”

“And what do we do in return?” whispered Tanub.

“You could start by teaching us how you make superior glass,” said Orne. “I certainly hope you see things our way. We really don't want to have to come down there and clean you out. It'd be a shame to have to blast that city into little pieces.”

Tanub wilted. Presently, he said: “Send me back. I will discuss this with … our council.” He stared at Orne. “You I–A's are too strong. We did not know.”

*   *   *

In the wardroom of Stetson's scout cruiser, the lights were low, the leather chairs comfortable, the green beige table set with a decanter of Hochar brandy and two glasses.

Orne lifted his glass, sipped the liquor, smacked his lips. “For a while there, I thought I'd never be tasting anything like this again.”

Stetson took his own glass. “ComGO heard the whole thing over the general monitor net,” he said. “D'you know you've been breveted to senior field man?”

“Ah, they've already recognized my sterling worth,” said Orne.

The wolfish grin took over Stetson's big features. “Senior field men last about half as long as the juniors,” he said. “Mortality's terrific?”

“I might've known,” said Orne. He took another sip of the brandy.

Stetson flicked on the switch of a recorder beside him. “Okay. You can go ahead any time.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“First, how'd you spot right away where they'd hidden the
Delphinus
?”

“Easy. Tanub's word for his people was
Grazzi.
Most races call themselves something meaning
The People.
But in his tongue that's
Ocheero. Grazzi
wasn't on the translated list. I started working on it. The most likely answer was that it had been adopted from another language, and meant
enemy.
”

“And
that
told you where the
Delphinus
was?”

“No. But it fitted my hunch about these Gienahns. I'd kind of felt from the first minute of meeting them that they had a culture like the Indians of ancient Terra.”

“Why?”

“They came in like a primitive raiding party. The leader dropped right onto the hood of my sled. An act of bravery, no less. Counting coup, you see?”

“I guess so.”

“Then he said he was High Path Chief. That wasn't on the language list, either. But it was easy:
Raider Chief.
There's a word in almost every language in history that means raider and derives from a word for road, path or highway.”

“Highwaymen,” said Stetson.

“Raid itself,” said Orne. “An ancient Terran language corruption of road.”

“Yeah, yeah. But where'd all this translation griff put—”

“Don't be impatient. Glass-blowing culture meant they were just out of the primitive stage. That, we could control. Next, he said their moon was
Chiranachuruso,
translated as
The Limb of Victory.
After that it just fell into place.”

“How?”

“The vertical-slit pupils of their eyes. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

“Maybe. What's it mean to you?”

“Night-hunting predator accustomed to dropping upon its victims from above. No other type of creature ever has had the vertical slit. And Tanub said himself that the
Delphinus
was hidden in the best place in all of their history. History? That'd be a high place. Dark, likewise. Ergo: a high place on the darkside of their moon.”

“I'm a pie-eyed greepus,” whispered Stetson.

Orne grinned, said: “You probably are … sir.”

 

OPERATION HAYSTACK

When the Investigation & Adjustment scout cruiser landed on Marak it carried a man the doctors had no hope of saving. He was alive only because he was in a womblike creche pod that had taken over most of his vital functions.

The man's name was Lewis Orne. He had been a blocky, heavy-muscled redhead with slightly off-center features and the hard flesh of a heavy planet native. Even in the placid repose of near death there was something clownish about his appearance. His burned, ungent-covered face looked made up for some bizarre show.

Marak is the League capital, and the I–A medical center there is probably the best in the galaxy, but it accepted the creche pod and Orne more as a curiosity than anything else. The man had lost one eye, three fingers of his left hand and part of his hair, suffered a broken jaw and various internal injuries. He had been in terminal shock for more than ninety hours.

Umbo Stetson, Orne's section chief, went back into his cruiser's “office” after a hospital flitter took pod and patient. There was an added droop to Stetson's shoulders that accentuated his usual slouching stance. His overlarge features were drawn into ridges of sorrow. A general straggling, trampish look about him was not helped by patched blue fatigues.

The doctor's words still rang in Stetson's ears: “This patient's vital tone is too low to permit operative replacement of damaged organs. He'll live for a while because of the pod, but—” And the doctor had shrugged.

Stetson slumped into his desk chair, looked out the open port beside him. Some four hundred meters below, the scurrying beetlelike activity of the I–A's main field sent up discordant roaring and clattering. Two rows of other scout cruisers were parked in line with Stetson's port—gleaming red and black needles. He stared at them without really seeing them.

It always happens on some “routine” assignment,
he thought.
Nothing but a slight suspicion about Heleb: the fact that only women held high office. One simple, unexplained fact … and I lose my best agent!
He sighed, turned to his desk, began composing the report:

“The militant core on the Planet Heleb has been eliminated. Occupation force on the ground. No further danger to Galactic peace expected from this source. Reason for operation: Rediscovery & Reeducation—
after two years on the planet—
failed to detect signs of militancy. The major indications were: 1) a ruling caste restricted to women, and 2) disparity between numbers of males and females
far
beyond the Lutig norm! Senior Field Agent Lewis Orne found that the ruling caste was controlling the sex of offspring at conception (see attached details), and had raised a male slave army to maintain its rule. The R&R agent had been drained of information, then killed. Arms constructed on the basis of that information caused critical injuries to Senior Field Agent Orne. He is not expected to live. I am hereby urging that he receive the Galaxy Medal, and that his name be added to the Roll of Honor.”

Stetson pushed the page aside. That was enough for ComGO, who never read anything but the first page anyway. Details were for his aides to chew and digest. They could wait. Stetson punched his desk callbox for Orne's service record, set himself to the task he most detested: notifying next of kin. He read, pursing his lips:

“Home Planet: Chargon. Notify in case of accident or death: Mrs. Victoria Orne, mother.”

He leafed through the pages, reluctant to send the hated message. Orne had enlisted in the Marak Marines at age seventeen—a runaway from home—and his mother had given post-enlistment consent. Two years later: scholarship transfer to Uni-Galacta, the R&R school here on Marak. Five years of school and one R&R field assignment under his belt, and he had been drafted into the I–A for brilliant detection of militancy on Hamal. And two years later—
kaput
!

Abruptly, Stetson hurled the service record at the gray metal wall across from him; then he got up, brought the record back to his desk, smoothing the pages. There were tears in his eyes. He flipped a switch on his desk, dictated the notification to Central Secretarial, ordered it sent out priority. Then he went groundside and got drunk on Hochar brandy, Orne's favorite drink.

*   *   *

The next morning there was a reply from Chargon: “Lewis Orne's mother too ill to travel. Sisters being notified. Please ask Mrs. Ipscott Bullone of Marak, wife of the High Commissioner, to take over for family.” It was signed: “Madrena Orne Standish, sister.”

With some misgivings, Stetson called the residence of Ipscott Bullone, leader of the majority party in the Marak Assembly. Mrs. Bullone took the call with blank screen. There was a sound of running water in the background. Stetson stared at the grayness swimming in his desk visor. He always disliked a blank screen. A baritone husk of a voice slid: “This is Polly Bullone.”

Stetson introduced himself, relayed the Chargon message.

“Victoria's boy dying? Here? Oh, the poor thing! And Madrena's back on Chargon … the election. Oh, yes, of course. I'll get right over to the hospital!”

Stetson signed off, broke the contact.

The High Commissioner's wife yet!
he thought. Then because he had to do it, he walled off his sorrow, got to work.

At the medical center, the oval creche containing Orne hung from ceiling hooks in a private room. There were humming sounds in the dim, watery greenness of the room, rhythmic chuggings, sighings. Occasionally, a door opened almost soundlessly, and a white-clad figure would check the graph tapes on the creche's meters.

Orne was lingering. He became the major conversation piece at the internes' coffee breaks: “That agent who was hurt on Heleb, he's still with us. Man, they must build those guys different from the rest of us!… Yeah! Understand he's got only about an eighth of his insides … liver, kidneys, stomach—all gone … Lay you odds he doesn't last out the month … Look what old sure-thing McTavish wants to bet on!”